Easy
by Spirit-Animal-Jade
Summary: When you are six years old, your mother tells you that '..nothing in life comes free, Jade. And if things seem too good to be true, then they usually are. Remember that.' And then he arrives.


AN: So this is part of savethebade's silver sixpence challenge- something old. I know it's short, so apologies, but I wanted to contribute. Enjoy?

When you are six years old, your mother tells you that '..nothing in life comes free, Jade. And if things seem too good to be true, then they usually are. Remember that.' Then she replaces her frown with a smile, ruffles your hair, and sends you off to bed. You don't get a bedtime story, or even a good-night kiss. But even at the tender age of six, you've learnt not to expect much from your mother. You climb up the stairs, clutching the raggedy grey bear you've had as long as you can remember to your chest, and lay listening for the creak of your mother's footsteps on the stairs that will tell you you're not alone in the house. Instead, you hear the slam of the front door.

.

You're in the playground when it happens. Eight years old with little brown plaits coming unbraided (your mother did them hurriedly in the morning whilst talking on the phone to someone whose name you didn't recognise. She shouted pretty loud, and you flinched when she tugged on your hair) Some little boy tries to push past you, blond hair falling over his eyes and his shoulder jolting you to the ground.

'Hey!' you exclaim, but he laughs at you anyway, sitting on the cold concrete, with your knee grazed. He runs away after a teacher helps you up and dusts you off. They get a plaster for you knee, and you're almost sad to see the pretty pattern of pink and red on your skin hidden by such a drab piece of material.

When your mother picks you up later, in the car, she asks you about it. You tell her what happened, about the mean, nasty boy who pushed you, and how he laughed and hurt you, and the teacher and the plaster, and everything. You don't stop talking for ten whole minutes and you're so excited because your mother is listening to you for once, and not on the phone.

'Well maybe you should learn to be a little tougher, Jade. You need be less sensitive. It's just a little push.'

She goes back to driving, hands on the steering wheel, eyes on the road. You sink down in your seat a little. She doesn't even check to see if you're alright in the visor.

.

'You look like a ghost!' she whispers. 'An ugly transparent ghost!' You whirl around in your seat to see who's speaking and it's the blond girl who's been scowling at you all week. She raises a goading eyebrow at you and you send her your best death glare in return. Her little group of wannabes laugh, a tinkering sound that goes right through you and sets your teeth on edge and you clench your fist.

'Oooooh. Is Jade West getting angry? What a surprise! You've got problems, you have.'

Your knuckles turn white.

'Freak.' she spits at you.

Later, when you're sat in your mother's office and she's looking at you dissaprovingly, arms crossed and this defeated look about her, you feel your blood begin to boil.

'Jade, your thirteen years old! What thirteen year old goes around scratching other little girl's faces and getting in to fights? In school! In front of a whole class!'

You clench your jaw tightly, but don't answer.

'Well?' Your mother taps her foot impatiently and the sounds sends your internal pressure a little higher.

'I was standing up for myself! Like you said to!' you shout and your mother bangs a hand down on the table, the stacks of paper there shaking and sliding.

'When did I ever say to get into physical fights? A backbone is necessary in this life, Jade, but this is intolerable!'

'No, I-' the words die in your throat as you realise you mother's stopped listening. Perhaps a long time ago. 'She called me a freak' you whisper.

Your mother looks you up and down, the dark clothing you've got on, the shakily applied eye-liner. 'Well...' she says. She doesn't add more. You get up and leave the room, trembling.

.

When you're fourteen, you switch schools. You'd heard about Hollywood Arts and you'd begged, pleaded, bargained and nagged your mother into letting you apply. You spend months on your audition piece, practicing in front of the mirror, trying to get your facial expression just so, training your voice to hit all the right notes. You think you've got talent, but you know talent alone isn't going to get you in, so you work hard. Your mother doesn't seem to take you seriously until the day of the audition, when you ask reluctantly for a lift.

'Are you sure, Jade? I mean, I want to prepare you, it's a top performing arts school. The odds of being accepted are very low.' You nod and push past her, waiting silently by the car door.

Soon enough however, your acceptance letter comes through the mail, and you swear you've never be so proud, and for the first time in ages there's a permanent grin on your face because of what you've achieved, all by yourself. You're worth something!

The grin only slips a little when your mother just smiles unconvincingly at you later when you tell her, and starts talking about how much it will cost to send you there.

Still, come the start of the next semester, she sends you off, first trying to get you to change and remove 'the obscene colours in your hair', which you resist by slamming doors in her face, and wishes you a reluctant 'good luck.' You take it.

.

You've been there two weeks when he approaches you. You're at your locker, angrily shoving books in and wishing you didn't have to take science because for god's sake isn't this a school for the arts, and oh man you've got to re-take that chemistry exam soon and you wish you could've slap your smug teacher's face when he told you you'd failed and you just need to get on to your improv classe- when someone taps you on the shoulder.

"WHAT?' you practically scream, coloured hair flying as you turn to face whoever has rudely interrupted your internal complaining. Stood infront of you is the boy you've seen in your drama class. The one with the easy smile and skin like he's got a ever present light tan. The one with the long wavy brown hair and the eyes that twinkle when he catches you looking. Not that you have. Of course.

He doesn't flinch at your outburst, just adjusts his bag on his shoulder and smiles at you. Really, it's infuriating. You raise an eyebrow and fix him with an icy glare.

'Can I help you?'

'Maybe. Depends on your answer to my next question.' He says, smirking, and raking a hand through his silky looking hair. He looks like a model, what the hell is he doing talking to you?

Your lips, formely set in a thin line, twitch. 'Oh, really?'

He nods, grinning. 'Uh-huh.' His fingers play at the strap of his rusack, thrown casually over his shoulder, nervously? He looks up at you, through his eyelashes. "I have two tickets for the cinema this saturday. Since I'm only one person, maybe you could help me out and take the other.'

You narrow eyes. The boy, you guess you should start calling him Beck, fidgets under your gaze but his smile doesn't dim any.

'Do you even know my name?'

He smiles at you, lopsidedly. 'Jade West. Freshman. You live on the east side of LA. No siblings.'

You consider this boy, standing in front of you with his magic hair and easy smile, and you're six again, standing this time in front of your mother, blue eyes wide and wet while she stares down into the bottom of a whisky glass. 'Nothing in life comes easy, Jade.'

This is too easy. This is something you don't deserve. This could be something that will only break your heart later. This is something you can't let yourself in for. Your biting sarcasm comes out to play, like the only way you know how.

'Congratulations. Ten points for your knowledge. But it's a no.' You gather your things and walk away down the corridor. You swear you can feel his eyes on your back.

.

There are phone calls, whispered conversations in the corridors while you try to avoid his pleading eye. He turns up at your house when your mother is out (quite a lot of the time) engine obnoxiously left running while he stands at your door. As if, just like that, you'll get up and run away with him or something.

You want him though. You want the easy smiles that seem never to appear in your life. You want someone to talk to. You want someone to laugh with. Someone to love. You think you could, quite easily, fall in love with this boy. And it scares you.

Nothing that comes easy ever comes good. So you're not going to make it easy for the boy with the coffee skin, are you? You're not even going to make it easy for yourself.

But each phone call left unanswered until the ringing fades away, each nudge of the arm, wink of the eye, is a chip in this protective armour you've built around yourself, the one that you've been building since you were six years old. And he's slowly, but surely, knocking it down.

.

'This is the 113th time I've tried. Jade West, will you go out with me?'

He's looking at you, and it's like the first time, both stood outside your locker, but this time he's got you pinned, an arm each side of you, so you have no choice but to face him and look into his brown eyes, obscured slightly by the wisps of hair hanging over his forehead. You feel your resolve cracking just a little bit more.

'Beck, no, I've told you-'

'You've told me, but unless you out-right murder me, not that I would but it past you,-'

(You don't know whether to feel pleased or offended.)

'-then I'm not giving up. Okay? So for the 114th time then. Cinema. Me and you. Tomorrow. Please come with me?'

He puts a hand on your arm and it feels like heaven with the heat of hell on your pale skin. You want this. You want this so much. You've been fighting long enough, right?

'Fine,' you say. And it feels like you've ripped a hole in your own chest, shattered through the last of your remaining protection- blasted it aside with just that one word, to reveal your heart, pink and quivering in it's place. But it's his to hold now. You're hoping you haven't just self-destructed.

.

Long nights in the RV are always your favourite. When the stars are out and the orange glow of the streetlamp filters through the thin curtains to wash both your faces pale. You listen to his even breathing beside you and trace your fingers over his chest, under the crumpled folds of his shirt. Even in his sleep he pulls you closer until you can feel his body heat burning against yours and the steady rhythm of his beating heart under your palm.

You think that's the epitome of Beck. Steady. As opposed to you. You know you're not good at this relationship thing, you get it. You're controlling and jealous; your sarcasm bites and your anger blocks out. But you need to know he's not going to walk away from this- because that would be the easy thing to do. Leave you behind, and with you all your arguments, all your 2am fights, be done with all of that. So your instinct is to push before you're pushed, fight before you're beaten down. That's just who you are.

But at night you cling to him and kiss his jaw softly because he's still here and you're still here, and God knows it isn't easy, and you hate to admit your mother was right, but he's the best thing you ever had and he might just have saved you. Your mother doesn't speak to you anymore, washing her hands of you as soon as you hit sixteen, learnt to drive and didn't 'get rid of that god-forsaken boy'. So you washed your hands of her, in return. Sometimes there's a glance in your direction to tell you your dinner is in the oven, a shout up the stairs to tell you she's going out, stick-notes left on the fridge detailing her movements for the next week. (She won't be at home. You didn't expect her to be.)

But none of that matters when you wrap an arm around his stomach and curl up even tighter. What you have isn't easy, unstable and crazy as it is. But you found it yourself and you both fight for it, each and every day. You and Beck are no fairytale, no model to make a perfect relationship of. But he's good and he's true and the speed-bumps along the way even everything out. You're not giving up yet, it might not be easy, but it's worth it. You close your eyes and let the warmth and sleep combined pull you under. Your mind, for once, at rest.

AN: if you read this, then I love you. No, really. Please let me know what you thought? Cheers, Thea x


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